


Is Paris Burning?

by Pamela Rose (pamela_rose)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24373195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamela_rose/pseuds/Pamela%20Rose
Summary: Dreams?  Nightmares?  Reality?  For Fox Mulder there's not much difference.
Relationships: Fox Mulder & Dana Scully
Kudos: 5





	Is Paris Burning?

“. . . intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic regarded our Earth with envious eyes, slowly and surely drawing their plans against us.”

Mulder lowered the volume on the TV and lay back on the sofa, plumping up the pillow with his fist. He loved _The War of The Worlds_ —he’d seen it at least two dozen times since he’d snuck downstairs at age five to watch it on the forbidden Creature Features. But the first part was his favorite; the rest was just another bizarre selection in his repertoire of lullabies; the Spooky version of counting sheep. Sometimes it even worked.

He hadn’t slept in nearly two days, which wasn’t unusual, but—as his partner had pointed out—was neither healthy nor conducive to sharpening his mental faculties.

Something crawled on his bare foot and he levitated from the couch at least an inch while his mind jumped to cockroaches. It wasn’t a roach, however, it was a tiny moth, the size of his thumbnail. That was hardly an improvement, since it engendered thoughts of other bugs, much, much smaller. He immediately switched on the lamp by the couch. And the bulb blew out.

“Shit!”

The adrenaline rush faded, however, and he didn’t feel inclined to rummage through his disorganized closets for a new bulb. The movie was providing sufficient light as the aliens spurted showers of fire and toasted trusting yokels. He winced and turned away, remembering a dash through a hall filled with flames.

Dammit, how was he supposed to sleep when he could never shut off his mind, let alone slow it down? Sometimes it seemed like the world was SP and he SLP.

He glanced at the phone and considered calling Scully. It was nearly 11:00 and chances were she would be curled up in her bed in a flannel nighty (okay, it was hot, so maybe it was cotton) and reading a weighty text on the communicative diseases of South African wombats or something equally as stimulating. Christ, he wouldn’t want to interrupt that. They might need that information in the near future.

Sighing, he spent a few seconds speculating on the color of her nighty. White, of course. With a tiny yellow silk ribbon tie at the throat. He smiled and snuggled down on the sofa. Now, this was a vision he could go to sleep with.

The phone rang. He jumped again, assuming it was Scully. Sometimes there was a positively psychic vibe between them. Particularly when he was thinking dirty thoughts about her.

Cautiously, he picked up the phone. “Mulder.”

“Skinner,” came the abrupt reply.

He sat up straight. “Yes, sir?”

There was a silence, heavy with meaning. On the TV the U.S. Army tried to wipe out the aliens with an A-bomb to no avail. Mulder watched the evil head of the Martian war machine poke through the smoke. For some reason it always reminded him of the revolving colored light that his mother set up to reflect on the sterile silver metal Christmas tree.

“Sir?”

“I’m here. I was just wondering if it was a mistake to call you.”

“I’m sure you gave it a great deal of consideration before you dialed, sir.”

“Now I’m reconsidering. I don’t want you going off half-cocked on this, Agent Mulder.”

“Who, sir? Me, sir?” Deciding humor might not be the best avenue at the moment, Mulder cleared his throat and continued in a more sober tone. “I mean, no, sir. Of course not.”

Skinner muttered something definitely obscene. “All right then. I just got a report—unverified—that someone resembling Krychek was spotted in Europe.”

“What? How—? Where—?”

“As I said, the report is unverified, and there’s no solid reason to believe—”

“Where in Europe?”

“You can’t assume—”

“Where?!”

“France. Paris.”

* * *

A summer evening in Paris. The cherry blossoms were long gone, but there were geraniums in plenty lining the sidewalk cafe and hanging from baskets on the walls. They were supposed to be a beautiful red. Mulder took their word for it. Personally, he preferred yellow roses. He had been told that Scully’s hair was red; he took their word for that as well. But he knew her eyes were blue. He liked the color of her eyes.

The sun was setting and the streetlights were beginning to hum and a couple of very bright stars twinkled in the darkening city sky. A lot of things were sparkling and twinkling at the moment. He was drinking wine, one glass after another. It was very good, although he couldn’t remember the year. Right now, he wasn’t even positive if it were white or (if you could trust them) “red”. He shut one eye and stared down into the glass. It was dark, so it was red. Very good red wine. Yum.

He looked up to see Scully approaching beside a man of medium height with a lean, attractive face. She stopped to shake hands with him. He was dark haired with a slightly receding hairline, suave looking, expensively dressed, and possessed wide, muscular shoulders. Mulder’s eyes narrowed, hating him on sight. Particularly when he lifted Scully’s hand and kissed the palm. To make matters worse, she didn’t give him “the look” but actually smiled.

He slugged back the remainder of the wine in his glass and poured some more. What a pity he didn’t drink. This stuff was great.

Pepé Le Peu continued down the street as Scully came over to Mulder’s table. For a second Mulder considered standing up and pulling out her chair, but no, he was a 90s kind of guy; enlightened, liberated, and too tipsy for that kind of crap. Scully wasn’t accustomed to it anyway.

She sat down and looked at him with one of her irritatingly sympathetic expressions.

“Comey tally vou to you, madeoselly.” He picked up the bottle and poured a few splashes into her glass. “Cheers!”

“Can you spare it?”

“Mi café es su café.”

“At least your Spanish is marginally better than your French.”

“Oh, so you were one of those girls who took French, eh?”

The blue eyes were glacial. “Actually, I took German.”

He nearly spit wine out of his nose. “Why am I not surprised? So who was the Louis Jordan character with the mustache?”

“That was Dr. Vidal Fershant. He’s a surgeon at Hôpital Americain de Paris.”

“Oooh, a surgeon. I’m impressed.”

“You wanted me to check out—”

“So what did he know?”

“The man we were looking for is Pierre Sandot. He is a pediatrician and has been working at that hospital for five years.”

She was using that patient, humoring voice that caused his back teeth to be worn to a nub. “So how do we know it’s the same guy? They change shape, we know they—”

“Mulder, why would the alien leave Krychek’s body and search the world for one that just looked a lot like him? Why would “it” bother to do that? This isn’t the alien. This isn’t Krychek. It’s a dead end, a wild goose chase, a . . .” she trailed off, shaking her head.

“Run out of clichés, Scully?” Mulder snapped.

“No, but I’m out of patience. And we’re out of time. Vacation time. _My_ vacation time, by the way.”

Mulder took another drink, a sip this time, considering his answer. He always hated this stage. With Scully there was always three stages, sometimes four. First, skepticism. Second, wait and see. Third, wow-I-wonder-how-that-happened? And fourth, skepticism coated in smugness.

This was stage four with a vengeance.

“We’ve been here almost a week, Mulder, and we’ve essentially found nothing. This Dr. Sandot has a superficial resemblance to Krychek. That’s it, _finito_.”

“Italian, now,” Mulder mumbled.

“Well, have you found anything? Anything at all?”

Mulder just looked at her.

“Oh, don’t even say it,” she warned.

“Say what?”

“That the fact we haven’t found anything is reason enough to be sure there is something to find. That no proof is proof, or whatever other idiotic—”

“That the dog didn’t bark?” he interjected lightly.

“Exactly. You’re not Sherlock Holmes and I’m not Watson, and Krychek is dead and gone and good riddance. Face it!”

Mulder looked up through his lashes. “I thought we were Ahab and Starbuck?” He smiled wistfully and quoted: “‘Starbuck, of late I’ve felt strangely drawn to thee; ever since that hour we both saw—thou knowst what, in one another’s eyes.’”

The blue eyes widened, and she looked, like she occasionally did, a very young girl instead of the seasoned agent that she was. Her innocence and purity frustrated him at times. Now he felt entranced.

She recovered swiftly and quoted back as he should have known she would: “‘My soul is more than matched; she’s overmanned; and by a madman!’” Scully continued beyond what he remembered, however: “‘But he drilled deep down, and blasted all my reason out of me! I think I see his impious end; but I feel that I must help him to it.’”

He had no answer to that. It was embarrassingly accurate.

She continued to quote _Moby Dick_ , almost angrily, “‘Will I, nill I, the ineffable thing has tied me to him; tows me with a cable I have no knife to cut.’”

“Is that why you came? Because you don’t know how to break it off?”

“Break what off?”

“Our partnership, of course.”

She closed her eyes. “Oh that. No, that wasn’t it. You’re a good partner, Mulder. I don’t want to lose that.”

“Then what? Why did you come, Scully? Even at the beginning, you didn’t believe there was anything to Skinner’s information.”

“Be fair. Neither did Skinner.”

“No. So why?”

She looked at him, totally exasperated. “This is Paris, Mulder! _Paris_! City of lights. City of love. I’ve always wanted to come to Paris—what woman doesn’t? Especially with someone they—are fond of. I just thought once we checked out the rumor, we could just . . . I don’t know . . . enjoy the city.”

“Enjoy...?” The word tasted strange in his mouth. When had he last “enjoyed” anything more complicated than a slice of pie? Or the most recent Penthouse?

“Yes, enjoy. Didn’t you consider that this is the first time I’ve been in Paris? That I might find it exciting to be here? Invigorating? Romantic—” She broke off, glaring. “But, you, Mr. Oxford grad, probably came here for a lot of amorous weekends with the Limey siren.”

“Limey?” he said weakly.

“You know who I mean. That Green person.”

“You got that Limey thing from your father, didn’t you?”

“Mulder—”

“You never liked Phoebe, did you?”

“I don’t like spiders either.”

“Phoebe was a spider?”

“She wanted to suck you dry, Mulder.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but she interrupted before he could speak. “I know. She did, right?”

He smiled beatifically.

“But it wasn’t so fun when she spit you out again,” she continued. He stopped smiling. She shook her head sadly. “I would imagine that’s the kind of women you like. The aggressive, vampire type. Sexy and soulless.”

“Actually, you’re my type. Brainy and cool. You always make me think of fall days.”

“What?”

“Autumn’s my favorite time of year; did I ever tell you?”

“So why haven’t you shown me the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre?”

“Why won’t you go with me to Roswell or the Bermuda Triangle?”

“Stop changing the subject!”

“What, exactly, is the subject? Tourism?”

“You’re such a smarty pants!”

This time wine did come out his nose. “Smarty pants?!!”

“Forget it! Forget I said anything! I’m going home.” She started to get up, but he caught her arm.

“Wait, I’m sorry. It’s hard for me, Dana.”

Her first name shocked her enough to cause her to sit back down. “What’s hard?”

Telling her what was hard was hard in itself. How could he explain that he found it really, really difficult to make the first move with anybody. Penthouse Playmates in the privacy of his home aside, his sexual aggression was decidedly limited. He had never been sure whether he was more afraid of being rejected or being accepted. It pretty much summed up his whole life, actually. All in all, he preferred to wait and see how people took him without making any effort one way or the other. That way, it was much easier to blame them for the outcome. But he couldn’t very well explain all this to her. At least this didn’t seem an auspicious moment to try. She obviously—judging from Monsieur ooh la la—wanted romance and passion and to be made love to. None of which he objected to in a theoretical sense. Scully was in his private fantasies almost as much as Miss October and her pumpkins.

Her eyes were sparkling in the lamplight, in the newly lit candles on the tables (when did they light the candles?), she was beautiful and classy. Her skin was so smooth, like porcelain—which reminded him of a glistening wash basin—which reminded him of a cockroach crawling from the drain—which had absolutely nothing to do with Scully, so he didn’t know why he was thinking about it except that he was beginning to feel panicky and itchy and had drunk far too much wine.

“I don’t drink you know,” he told her solemnly. “I never drink.” And he waited for her to kiss him, throw him across the table, whatever.

She merely looked annoyed and a little puzzled.

Well, it had worked the last time. Apparently, he would have to take the situation into his own hands.

“Mulder!” Scully grabbed his hand in a grip that made him wince and flung it back at him. “You are impossible!”

“Why?”

“Grabbing my breast is the best you can do? That’s it! I’m out of here!”

This time she moved too fast and he couldn’t catch her. “You’re going back to D.C.?”

“No, I’m going to accept the dinner invitation from Vidal!”

He opened his mouth, but she was gone before he could think of a way to stop her. He slunk back into his chair, wondering what nighty she would wear with Vidal. Probably none at all.

Time ceased to have meaning . . . until he heard screams. He jerked upright, blinking to see people running, chairs and tables overturned in the stampede. Standing, he stumbled back and pressed against the wall to keep from being run over. The cries of “fire” made he look around to the west where flames were dancing over the rooftops, growing taller and moving closer with each second.

Paris was burning. The city was an inferno with the wall of fire moving ever closer. Sirens blared, screams pierced the air, punctured by explosions. The light was almost blinding and he could already feel the heat.

His fear was as alive as the fire, growing and flaring just as rapidly. Fire. His greatest fear.

Scully! He had to find her. She had went in the direction of the fire. He ran out into the street, running to find her, tell her everything he had never been able to tell her, keep her safe from the hateful flames, protect her, love her—

The high-pitched blaring of a horn finally cut through the other din and he turned to look back a split second before the car hit him . . .

* * *

Mulder woke up to a high-pitched, persistent whine. He fell off the couch, twisting to land on his knees, breathing heavily and terrified. He looked over to see the test pattern on the TV screen and he slowly returned to reality.

Covered his face with his hands, he took a deep breath. “Damn!” He took another deep breath and let it out in a slow whoosh. A dream, a fucking dream.

He shook his head to clear it, and grabbed for the remote, muting the sound. He glanced at the test pattern again, slightly surprised—he couldn’t remember seeing one for a very long time. Hadn’t they stopped them or something? He’d been watching the SciFi Channel. He didn’t think it ever went off the air. TV occasionally made him paranoid now, ever since the X-file with the subliminal messages. After all, Scully had nearly shot him. But he had so many paranoias, adding television to the others seemed redundant. Besides he was a baby boomer and would as soon give up his right to work in a smoke-free environment as his TV.

As much as he would like to believe it, he didn’t think his dream was instigated from an outside source. Too much of it hit close to his daydreams; and except for the end, it hadn’t been so very bad. He’d certainly had much worse. This one didn’t even hit the top ten horror list of nightmares, although it was certainly one of the most realistic and vivid in memory.

Sitting there, slowly calming himself, he realized he still smelled something burning.

“Christ, the coffee pot!” He ran into the kitchen, nose wrinkling at the stench of burnt coffee, and rescued the Pyrex just before it cracked from the heat. The inside of the glass had a coating of dried, black crud. Lovely. No wonder he dreamed of burning. When the pot was cool enough he filled it with water and left it in the sink.

He returned to the living room and sat down, wondering if he should take a shower now and get ready for work, but looking out the windows, it was still dark. It must be nearly— Looking at the clock he was amazed to see it was only 1:00 a.m. Impossible. It felt like he had slept for hours.

His gaze fell on the little white bottle of pills on the end table. Melatonin, the new miracle drug. During the period when Scully was missing, one of the Lone Gunmen—Langley of the golden locks—had recommended that he try them if he had trouble sleeping. “They’re not addictive, they’re all natural, and we haven’t discovered any government connection to the manufacture and distribution yet.” Mulder had appreciated the gesture, recognizing the kind concern behind it—he had looked and felt like hell during those horrible weeks. But it wasn’t until last night that he’d impulsively decided to pop one in his mouth. In his job he couldn’t afford to take sleeping pills or anything that would dull his senses. And he had to admit, the melatonin had certainly been subtle. He couldn’t even remember becoming particularly drowsy, and yet he must have slipped into an extremely deep sleep almost immediately.

Still, the dream had been so real, perhaps he should have checked into these things a little more. It was 1:05 a.m. There a chance that Scully wasn’t asleep yet. Shrugging, he grabbed up the phone and punched redial.

The first ring hadn’t even finished when she answered, “Scully here. Is that you Mulder?”

He made a few growly, suggestive breaths into the receiver.

“Thank goodness,” she said wryly, “It’s not Cancer Man, it’s Asthma Man.”

He snickered. “You just don’t know how to have a good time, Scully.”

“What’s up, Mulder?”

“Are you sure you want the answer to that? Okay, okay. Actually, I was wondering if you knew anything about melatonin?”

“Well, yes. A little. It’s a hormone secreted by the pineal gland, a pea-sized gland that lies deep within the brain.”

“Are you calling me a pea brain, Scully?”

She continued spewing information without a pause. “It’s recently been discovered that this hormone appears to keep daily biological rhythm synchronized with chronological time and is involved in the regulation of sleep. Its level rises at dusk, peaks in the middle of the night and declines by sunrise. Research is now in progress to evaluate the effectiveness and safety of melatonin for alleviating insomnia and jet lag. There have been some early studies indicating a moderately successful degree of treatment for sleep disorders. It is currently classified as a dietary supplement and not a drug, and so it is not regulated by the FDA. It’s sold openly in health food stores and unjustly touted as some kind of a miracle drug. So far, the only miracle is that no one has dropped dead of an overdose.”

“So it’s dangerous?”

“I didn’t say that. I said the findings are unreliable. There really hasn’t been enough research on long-term exposure.”

“But there are the side effects?”

“Almost everything has a side effect. Even your middle-of-the-night chats. I end up with circles under my eyes. Forget Mrs. Spooky; I’m now known as Raccoon Scully, and there are rumors that I moonlight as a lap dancer.”

“Ooh, tell me more.”

“The primary side effect reported so far has been vivid dreams.”

“After watching you lap dance, I don’t doubt it. Do you strip off a white lab coat and latex gloves? Now I’m really excited.”

“Mulder, do you have any idea what my last score was on the target range?”

“Okay, okay. Side effects are vivid dreams. How about the sensation of a long sleep when one has only been asleep for a couple of hours?”

“Yes. That’s common. The increased REM activity—dreams—gives the impression of time lapse. Dream activity is what makes sleep necessary. It’s been theorized that they are a mental dumping of excess material; like a computer backup or purging files to make more space. The greater dream activity, perhaps the more extreme purging of mental roughage.”

“What do you mean?”

“Basically that sleep deprivation is often more a case of dream repression. We need to dream to function. Just resting isn’t sufficient. There have been sleep experiments where a person is awakened periodically, letting the subject sleep but repeatedly disrupting the REM cycle, and the subject reacts the same as someone who has been refused sleep altogether. Disoriented, cross, depressed, and mentally torpid.”

“So the melatonin gives a stronger REM cycle?”

“The preliminary studies indicate as much. But the tests are incomplete and often unscientific. There are also documented difficulties concerning people with endocrinal problems such as diabetics or depressive mental states.”

“They sell this over the counter, don’t they? How bad can it be?”

“They sell aspirin and Twinkies over the counter, too,” she was beginning to sound exasperated. “In excess, deaths have been traced to both.”

“God, Scully, you’re giving up your Twinkies?!”

“Guess how many calories are in those sunflower seeds you gorge on?”

“I have a very high metabolism.”

“Speaking of which, my point is we don’t know how your metabolism is dealing with the melatonin. It’s never a good idea to take quack drugs, Mulder.”

“What makes you think I—?”

“Spare me. How long have you been taking this stuff?”

“This is the first night I’ve tried it.”

She was silent for a moment. “You had dreams?”

“Uh. . .” Now, this he didn’t want to get into. “Yeah, I dreamed Queeqag came back from the dead and explained the philosophical difference between Norman Mailer and Gore Vidal—”

“I’m hanging up, Mulder.”

“Sorry. No, it really wasn’t anything serious. Just very real . . . uh . . . intense, and I got curious. I promise I won’t take any more.”

Another pause. “But you’re having trouble sleeping again?”

Again? How did she know?

Unwittingly, his voice softened, “I’m all right, Scully, honest. Listen, thanks for the info, but I know its past your bedtime.”

“I’m in bed already.”

He grinned. Ah, the vision. “What’re you wearing?” he growled.

He jerked the receiver back from his ear at the definite bang from the other end, and laughed. Poor Scully, why the hell did she put up with him?

He remembered his dream and her romantic leanings. No, that was his dream—Scully was the pragmatic realist he knew and loved. She was beautiful, but there was a definite glaze of frost around her. Never once in all their time together had she ever even hinted that she found him sexually attractive. Why should she? He was a “geek” and she was the female version of a “geek.” They were both fish out of water—she was a brainy, scientifically-minded tomboy; he was a brainy, sensitive psychology major. Geeks were drawn to totally different types. He lusted for Pamela Sue Anderson and she— He paused, wondering. Either Jean Claude Van Dame or Sean Penn; no Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp for her. No, someone rugged and manly. Then he adjusted his thoughts. Scully would go for older guys. She was a daddy’s girl; she’d look for a father figure. Sean Connery, maybe. Or even Skinner.

He sat up, startled by the thought. Did she find Skinner attractive? Surely not. Then again . . . He was an attractive man. Sure of himself, very masculine, muscular and intelligent to boot. Of course, he was bald, but so was Sean Connery. So was Scully’s dad . . .

Food for thought. Scully and Skinner.

For some reason that idea irritated him. Sean Connery was a safe fantasy figure—but Skinner was a lot more accessible. His marriage was, well . . . uncertain. And A.D. Skinner had been proven to be a sensual, seducible, fallible being. Weren’t strong but emotionally vulnerable men irresistible to women?

He tried to recall meaningful looks or vibes between Scully and Skinner. There were many, but that wasn’t necessarily significant; most often they were expressions of exasperation directed at him. People were always rolling their eyes and making faces around him. He’d lived with that for years.

No, this was ridiculous. There was nothing going on with Skinner and Scully. Scully would have told him. They didn’t keep secrets.

He winced, remembering his nightmares, remembering times when she was less than forthcoming. Okay, so they had their secrets. But they trusted each other. She wouldn’t— Skinner wouldn’t—

Shit, Skinner wouldn’t even tell him the truth about the succubus a few weeks ago. And he had practically begged.

Recalling that now, he felt his heart sink. It had hurt more than he expected. He’d believed Skinner trusted him as he’d come to trust the Assistant Director, but there were obviously limits to Skinner’s trust.

Mulder got up and fixed himself an iced tea. He sat back on the couch, gulping half of it down. He balanced the glass on the back of the couch as he went to stick a tape in the VCR.

His feelings for Skinner were mixed to say the least. At first he had been wary of him as another government stooge, but as time went on, he had begun to trust and admire him. The man had convictions, strength, and seldom took advantage of the power of his position. The main impression he had of Skinner was that he was “cool.” The man embodied the term so entrenched in Mulder’s childhood and adolescence. There was no better way to describe him. He was definitely, undeniably “cool” in the best sense of the word.

He certainly couldn’t blame Scully if she did want to do the wild thing with Skinner. The man would undoubtedly be very good at it. A point of pride, no doubt. He probably had a checklist at the side of his bed.

Mulder settled back on the sofa and pushed play on the remote. The tape was called “Unexplained Phenomena.” It started out with the Loch Ness Monster and moved on to various ghosts, poltergeists, angels, and other bits of bizarre trivia.

He reached for the book on his coffee table. It was a library book because he refused to pay money for Jose Chung’s mental vomit. But he was curious to read it.

“.... of insanity, his quest into the unknown has so warped his psyche one shudders to think how he receives any pleasures—”

Mulder tossed the book across the room forcefully. The bastard. He’d receive a great deal of pleasure by performing a noogie on Chung’s head with a jackhammer.

The view on the TV was of the Sasquatch, and that shaky bit of film caught his attention as it always did. For some reason the idea of Bigfoot appealed to him, like Big Blue. A creature living its own life to its own personal rules. Living in hiding from a dangerous predator—man. He could never forget the look in the eyes of the creature known as the Jersey Devil. Frightened, defiant, sad.

But she hadn’t hurt him, not really. She could’ve; obviously she had been stronger than him. He’d got the impression that she’d been sizing him up as a possible new mate.

And she’d been pretty hot, actually.

He smiled to himself. Maybe she was his female version of Jean Claude Van Dame. He’d certainly never have to make the first move with her.

For some reason his mind went back to Skinner. How would he have handled it? If he’d ever believed it at all?

He reached for his iced tea and yelped as the glass tipped across his lap. He sat the glass on the coffee table and gingerly pulled the jogging pants from his crotch. The wet stain was situated perfectly to jog an uncomfortable memory.

As a boy he had experienced a few bouts of bed wetting, which had impelled his appalled parents to send him to a child psychologist—a fact which had irked him since, even at that tender age, he rightly attributed his problem to consuming gallons of root beer that he illicitly purchased with his allowance. The psychologist had nodded his head wisely, stroked his Freud-like goatee, and spouted enough jargon to justify his exorbitant fee. All Fox remembered was that it had something to do with him being overly-excitable and excessively stimulated and ended with a vague reference to playing with matches. Infuriated, Fox had promptly found a box of matches and set his father’s toolshed on fire. It had been an accident, not arson, but the guilt and fear he experienced had never totally faded. The looked of disappointment, and even dislike, on his father’s face had burned into his memory even more than the flames that singed his eyebrows.

He headed for his bedroom for dry pants, unwilling to think any more about his father. It always made him feel an empty ache in his stomach, a sense of loneliness that threatened to overwhelm him at times.

The doorbell rang and he jumped, startled by the sound. He stood frozen for a second, unable to imagine who it could be at this hour. He knew the Lone Gunmen were building a survival bunker at Fan Haven in Arizona this weekend. Scully, of course. She was worried about the nightmares.

He moved the door, unlocked it and jerked it open while saying, “Decided to lap dance in person, eh Ssss—” he hissed to a stop.

Skinner glared at him. “Were you going to say sir or Skinner, Agent Mulder?”

“Ah . . . neither, sir. I thought it was someone else.”

“I hope so. May I come in.”

“Ah . . . sure. Yes, sir.”

“Thank you. I know how late it is, but—” He stopped, looking directly at Mulder’s crotch. His eyebrow lifted toward his broad dome.

Mulder looked down. “Oh, yes. Umm, I spilled my ice tea. I was just going to change.”

Skinner met his eye with a glint of humor. “So I didn’t wake you?”

“No, sir.”

“I probably shouldn’t have stopped by so late, but I wanted to know if you’ve decided to do anything about the Paris situation?”

Mulder stared at him. Paris? The phone call wasn’t part of the dream? That was real?

“Well?” Skinner asked impatiently.

Mulder turned away, shaken.

“Surely you’ve had time to think about it,” Skinner prodded. “I halfway didn’t expect to find you here. I was afraid you’d got on the next plane to Europe.”

Mulder took a deep breath, trying to think. “Tomorrow. I’ll leave tomorrow.”

“Dammit! I told you we weren’t sure of that report. And what exactly do you plan to do if you find him? Arrest him? You have no jurisdiction there.”

“Kill him,” Mulder whispered. “This time, I’ll kill him.”

Skinner heard him. “Can you?” he asked, almost as quietly.

Mulder spun around to face him. “Why not? He murdered my father. He killed Scully’s sister, or was involved at least. It’s probably the alien anyway, not Krychek at all.”

“Alien,” the skepticism was obvious.

“You still don’t believe? Even after all you’ve seen?”

“I’ve seen miracles, Agent Mulder, and I still don’t believe in God. Belief, faith, what’s the difference? Both are very foreign to me.” He paused, then added, “One thing I do believe is that you can’t kill Krychek. Not in cold blood.”

“Why do you say that?” Mulder snapped angrily. “I’ve killed before!”

“In self-defense or in defense of others. No, you can’t do it. You couldn’t do it before, and you’ll wimp out again.”

Mulder’s mouth opened then shut. He shook his head. “Is that what you think of me? That I’m weak?”

“That’s not what I said, and that’s certainly not what I think. But you can’t kill someone in cold blood. It’s not in your nature.”

“So why did you tell me he was there? What do you expect me to do? Send him a Hallmark card? Congratulations on your miraculous recovery?”

“Do you want to know what your problem is, Mulder?”

Furious, Mulder snarled, “You can’t imagine how much I’d love your diagnosis, D.A. Skinner. Or Dr. Skinner.”

“You’re an arrested adolescent. You’ve never emotionally progressed beyond the age of fourteen.”

Mulder looked bemused. “My, you have been reading psychology. But it’s twelve, actually. The traumatic episode of my sister’s abduction. See, I’ve read all the books, too. In fact, I’ve got a fuckin’ degree to prove it.”

“Then you know self-awareness does not always mean self-enlightenment. Knowing why you do something doesn’t always erase the compulsion. But to tell you the truth, it hasn’t been you I’ve been trying to figure out. It’s me. Why I keep risking my position—not to mention my ass—to help you. And why you trust me to help you.”

“I get results on a better average than any other agent you’ve got. We don’t always have a reason or a logical answer for what or how it happen, but the cases usually get closed. The bottom line looks good,” Mulder pointed out.

“But why do you trust me?”

“I don’t know, you tell me. Why?”

“Because I’m what you want to be when you grow up.”

“What, bald?”

“See? That’s just what I’m talking about. Your smart ass comments, your flippancy, your inability to have any kind of long-term relationship.”

Mulder rubbed his face tiredly. “What do you know about my relationships?”

“I know you’re a very lonely man, Fox.”

Mulder took his hands away from his face, startled.

“And I know I can kill Krychek for you.”

“What?”

“He deserves to die; I agree with you there. Whether he’s an alien or not is not something I care to address. But I am taking a personal leave and I do love Paris. That’s why I wanted to make sure I caught you before you did something stupid.”

Mulder was speechless. “Why . . .? I don’t understand.”

He pulled a ticket from inside his jacket. “9:45 a.m., Dulles to Paris. Too late for the cherry blossoms—”

“—but lots of geraniums,” Mulder murmured. He sat down heavily. “You’re serious?”

“I have a feeling he’s there, if that’s what you mean. I think I can find him. I used to be very good at this kind of thing.”

“Killing people?” Mulder asked weakly.

“Oh, yes. Long before you got your doctorate in psychology, I was majoring in assassination in Viet Nam. The Special Forces were not the Boy Scouts, Agent Mulder.”

“But—” Mulder looked up, feeling totally lost, “you never said why you—”

“Why I risk my neck for you? Why I’m doing this? Why I care?”

Mulder asked the question with his eyes.

Skinner shook his head. “It’s hard to explain.” He sat down near Mulder and clenched his hands between his knees. “A tool only exists for a use, no thought, no feeling. When I first went to Viet Nam, I had a purpose, an idealist goal, a clear view of right and wrong. But I became a tool. I was used, coldly, efficiently, but without a purpose I understood or even dared question. So there was no purpose, no ideal, only a task to perform.” He shot a glance at Mulder, then looked away. “I know, it was a long time ago. I’m not suffering PTSD. Burnout, maybe. Erosion of what purpose I’ve managed to grasp back after I returned. You see after I joined the FBI, I thought it would replace the purpose I’d lost. It did for a long while, but the years and red tape and bureaucracy has burned most of it away. I’m at the top; I’ll never go higher. I don’t have a shot in hell at Director—” He waved Mulder’s protest away. “No, my political connections aren’t even as good as yours. I got here by merit and the untimely death of a previous A.D. that left them stuck for a likely candidate. I was put in as a stopgap. I expect to be removed soon.”

“Because you stood up for us? Scully and me?”

“They would have done it anyway. Actually, that made it more difficult for them in ways, because they don’t want any connection with you. You’re dangerous. But, no, it’s not just the X-files.”

He laced and unlaced his fingers, the tension ebbing and flowing through his muscles. “It was fine with me. I’ve got my 20 in. Ready to retire, enjoy my life.” He looked at Mulder. “And then you come along.”

“Me?”

“Purpose. You radiate purpose. An ideal. Truth. You’re a fuckin’ sunburst in the basement.”

Mulder didn’t know how to respond, or even if he should.

The mood shifted, subtlety. Skinner was looking down at his jogging pants again. “Don’t you want to change? That must be uncomfortable.”

“Uh, yeah, sure.” Mulder almost ran to his bedroom, totally confused, unsure of what he was feeling. Skinner going to France to kill Krychek for him? _My champion_ , Mulder thought wryly as he stripped off his pants.

Suddenly Skinner was there, hand hot on his shoulder as he turned him around.

* * *

“Mulder! Mulder! Fox, wake up!”

He was so glad to see her, he grabbed her and kissed her. She shoved him back.

“Stop fooling around! What’s going on, Mulder? I tried calling you. Then I pounded on the door for five minute before using my key. You scared me to death, damnit.”

“Sorry. I’m okay. I guess I really conked out. You were right about those pills. I promise I’ll never take them again.”

“Now he listens to me. Are you sure you’re okay?”

He nodded, relaxing and relieved to know that that was a dream. This was almost more than Mrs. Mulder’s baby boy could handle—

“So what was Skinner doing here?” Scully asked.

Mulder jumped to his feet. “Skinner was _here_?”

“Yes, his car was parked outside earlier. By the time I found a parking place, it was gone.”

“Is something burning?” Mulder asked weakly.

As one, they turned to look at the glass candy dish where a lone cigarette butt smoldered ominously.


End file.
